


doctor's orders

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bondage, D/s, Dirty Talk, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/954494/chapters/1867608">Fleeting</a>, technically -- the only exception being that Combeferre is a medical student instead of a teacher. He works at a local hospital, and he and Grantaire play with that concept when they get sexy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doctor's orders

Combeferre shoved a dry piece of toast in his mouth as he turned towards the door. He had his bag, his coat, his keys — a handsome, dark-haired mess of a man was fast asleep in his bed. All was right with the world.

But a sudden, mischievous thought hit him before he could make it to the door.

He grabbed a notepad from the table and a pen from his bag and scribbled down a message — in flawlessly illegible ‘doctor’s handwriting’ no less — and marched back into the kitchen. When Grantaire woke up, he’d pee and then he’d come straight to the refrigerator to resupply his  bladder. It was a cute routine, even if he did frequently forget that cups exist for a reason.

Combeferre tacked the message to the freezer door and hurried out of his apartment.

***

It was the middle of the afternoon before Grantaire woke up. He didn’t have any shifts at the hospital to take, or anything to do really.

Keeping his bare ass in Combeferre’s gorgeous, silky bed seemed like a great idea.

He stretched, yawned, and dragged the thick, warm blanket up over his shoulders and snuggled in. The only serious downside to an otherwise perfect moment was the lack of a certain gorgeous medical student in his bed. His eyes flicked to the clock on the bedside table — a table that had started out clean before he’d begun sleeping over, but now permanently had a pack of his favourite cigarettes sitting right on top.

Apparently it was three in the afternoon. Combeferre wouldn’t be back until at least seven.

He yawned again.

An hour later he managed to drag himself out of bed, and along the predictable path to the bathroom. He didn’t look in the mirror — not even for a split-second. He never did, which led Courfeyrac to point out that if they were living in a horror movie, Grantaire would certainly be the first to go. (Jehan would survive longest, because — as Bossuet eloquently reasoned -- Jehan was the designated conspiratorial eldritch horror.)

But if he had, he might have noticed the way his hair was starting to resemble Combeferre’s (in a more messy, recently-fucked kind of way) — defying gravity at every possible opportunity.

He might have seen the crescent-shaped bruises littering his chest.

But he didn’t.

He scratched the back of his neck absently as he sauntered out of the comforting darkness of one side of the apartment into the warmth and light of the side with the sitting room and kitchen.

It was tempting to close his eyes and navigate the journey blind, but he’d learned his lesson the first eight times he’d tried — the stubbed (and broken) toes really just weren’t worth it.

The kitchen was darker than the main part of Combeferre’s apartment — for which he was grateful — but not so dark that he couldn’t see, having been blinded by the sunlight in the sitting room. He reached for the door of the fridge — and caught a glimpse of a message somebody had left for him.

On a mock-prescription pad, Combeferre had written, “Black lace thong (little one), fishnets, shiny black heels. Doctor’s orders.”

It was very important to Grantaire that “Doctor’s orders.” had been underlined several times.

He didn’t bother opening the fridge. He grabbed the note, spun around, and scrambled back to Combeferre’s bedroom.

***

“Are you okay?”

Combeferre didn’t answer.

Musichetta reached out, waving her hand between his eyes and his phone (Combeferre blinked), as she asked  “Paging the intern, is anyone actually home?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Got distracted?”

Combeferre slid his phone into his trouser pocket. “Something like that.”

But even off, he could still see pictures of Grantaire — pictures Grantaire had taken himself, of his legs in fishnets, of those perfect shoes, of his cock straining against lace — in his mind. His phone felt like it was burning his leg.

He pushed his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. “Two more hours to the end of my shift.”

A nurse stopped next to Musichetta to ask for her authorisation on clerical work— she ticked off a couple of things and signed as she replied, “You should count yourself lucky. It’s been a short day.”

And Combeferre knew it. He smiled, because he was so aware of what a blessing a ten hour workday at the hospital was. But that didn’t change the fact that he felt a physical ache in his chest because of how badly he wanted to be home. “I know,” he murmured, almost apologetically. Musichetta kissed his cheek.

“I have to get back to work— just hang in there.”

The minute she was gone, Combeferre pulled out his phone again.

[text] Combeferre: This is not what I prescribed.

Miles away, Grantaire rolled on to his stomach — his shoes made the sweetest noise when he tapped them together — and grinned.

[text] Grantaire: shoulda been more specific doc  
[text] Combeferre: If you so much as brush your fingers against your cock before I get home, I will thrash you.

Grantaire flipped over again and took another picture.

[text] Combeferre: You were warned.  
[text] Grantaire: come (home) soon

Combeferre turned his phone off entirely and left it in his storage locker until the end of his shift.

It was a testament to his iron will that he came home a full two hours later than Grantaire anticipated. Text after text after text of increasingly filthy pictures went into the wires, and received no answers. Knowing he needed to truly punish his slutty boyfriend, Combeferre had volunteered his services to the ER for an additional hour and a half after his shift. It wasn’t easy, staying at the hospital when there was something so desperate waiting for him — but it was necessary.

Grantaire was sulking on the couch when Combeferre finally walked through the door.

But he was still in stockings.

Combeferre pulled off his tie.

And then his belt.

“Get over here, right now.”

Grantaire didn’t move. He lazily looked over his shoulder — he had one hand down the front of the thong he was wearing, and was slowly stroking himself. “You stopped replying.”

Combeferre let one end of the belt hit the floor. The other he held firmly in his hand. “I said. Get over here.”

“I heard you,” Grantaire answered. He looked back at the laptop on the coffee table where he’d been half-interestedly watching a movie. (Combeferre didn’t have a television.)

(Combeferre also had no patience for ill-behaved subs.)

He marched across his living room and hauled Grantaire off the couch by his hair.

Grantaire yelped and fell to his knees — he struggled to get to his feet, but those beautiful shoes and Combeferre’s insistent dragging made it impossible. He shuffled frantically, and frankly — he was lucky. The floor in Combeferre’s living room was slick, polished wood. Anything less, and Grantaire might have torn his stockings.

Oh the trouble he’d have been in if he had.

Combeferre pulled him away from the couch and the coffee table to an open space before letting Grantaire go. Or rather, before letting go of Grantaire’s hair. He stepped around his kneeling boyfriend to seize his wrists — and used his own belt to bind them together.

Leather restraints weren’t his preference. They weren’t particularly safe, and they definitely weren’t long-term.

But some bratty little sluts deserved it.

Grantaire grinned as Combeferre sternly tied him up. He was in trouble — and he was glad. It was one of his favourite places to be.

Combeferre straightened up and stood in front of him again.

Grantaire could hardly see through his messy, curly bangs, but he tried to look up at Combeferre. Kneeling on the floor while Combeferre glared down at him — that was his absolute favourite. “Problem, doc?” He drawled. Combeferre immediately grabbed Grantaire’s face, pinching his cheeks together.

“It’s  _doctor_ ,” he murmured. He had a talent for making people hear him even when he was speaking quietly. “Not doc,” he continued. “Not friend.  _Doctor_. Do you understand?”

Grantaire tried to nod.

“Say it.”

It was muffled, but Grantaire repeated, “Doctor,” back to him.

“Good,” Combeferre replied. He let go of Grantaire’s face, pushing his fingers backwards through Grantaire’s hair again. He didn’t pull — but he wasn’t gentle. “Do you know what happens to little boys who don’t do what they’re told?”

Grantaire licked his lips.

“They get punished.”

He didn’t have Combeferre’s self-control. (Though, in his defence, no one did.) He’d been playing with himself when Combeferre grabbed him, and now his cock hung stiffly outside of the lace thong stretched across his hips.

Combeferre didn’t bother looking at him as he gave his next order. “Untie my shoes.”

Grantaire’s grin faltered.

That was new — that kind of instruction. He’d gotten quite accustomed (far too much so, Combeferre had decided) to being a little shit and getting whatever he wanted — even if what he so desperately wanted was Combeferre. But evidently Dr. I’m-only-dominant-when-others-need-me-to-be was done tolerating his disobedience.

Combeferre tapped his foot impatiently.

Grantaire felt a shiver run down the length of his spine.

He leaned forward — and growled as he realised he couldn’t reach Combeferre’s shoes. Combeferre smirked. Grantaire shuffled forward until his lips brushed against Combeferre’s laces. There was a comment on the back of his tongue demanding to know if this was actually sanitary, but he kept it to himself.

Combeferre wasn’t fucking around.  He very much knew what he was doing, and Grantaire didn’t really want to dwell on what else Combeferre could come up with — on what might be worse than using his tongue and teeth to carefully pull the laces of Combeferre’s shoes apart.

(It didn’t stop him from nuzzling against Combeferre’s leg when he was done.)

Combeferre kept his chin up, and his eyes focused on some unimportant area on the other side of the room as he stepped out of his shoes. “Well done,” he told Grantaire. “Now follow me.”

Grantaire sat upright.

Combeferre sauntered away from him and into the kitchen.

Grantaire groaned.

“And don’t even think about standing up,” Combeferre called back. “It won’t be good for your health…”

Grantaire bit his lip to keep from swearing loudly.

He shuffled forward on his knees. It was a struggle — every inch drove the threads of his stockings into his skin, and his shoes kept his feet angled. If he hadn’t been so flexible, it might have actually hurt. And — though the eternally sarcastic and slightly bitter part of him refused to admit it — he’d have liked it just as much. He hung his head and kept moving.

Combeferre slid past him, moving back into the living room.

It was hellish, honestly. Kneeling there with his cock out and his arms strapped together behind him while Combeferre — Combeferre, who was obscenely elegant and tall and handsome no matter how much he denied it — just swept past. And that was exactly what Combeferre wanted.

Needy little sluts who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves didn’t get graceful attention. They got lessons in manners until they learned exactly why they should behave themselves.

Grantaire swallowed down an exasperated noise, but Combeferre could read the lack of defiance in the way his shoulders slumped. He could see Grantaire’s sass caving under the weight of his own desire to be touched — and not just fucked, but  _touched_. Caressed by someone who he knew could make him beg.

“Do you need something?” Combeferre asked. He sounded so disinterested that Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from curling over slightly.

“A doctor,” he murmured breathlessly. “I  _need_  a doctor.”

“Why?” Combeferre continued, still teasing him. “Are you sick?”

Grantaire groaned. “I’m  _hot_ ,” he answered, looking up. “I’m hot. My knees hurt. …and I have a problem.”

Combeferre didn’t smirk. Everything in him wanted to — but he didn’t. “Oh? What kind of problem?”

Grantaire pressed his forehead against the floor. At least it was cool. At least he could focus on that instead of the yearning in his chest and the ache between his legs.

His stoic boyfriend walked over to where he’d stopped, and crouched down. “Look at me,” Combeferre instructed.

Grantaire tilted his head just enough to glance at Combeferre out of the corner of his eye.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre insisted — still assertive, although the disinterest had faded. He almost came across as soothing. Grantaire lifted his head from the floor and Combeferre slid closer, putting his left hand under Grantaire’s chin. “You’re flushed.”

“No shit,” Grantaire answered with a dry smile. But it slipped as he stared at Combeferre imploringly. “Forgive me? Please?”

“Why should I?” Combeferre asked — but his right hand brushed against Grantaire’s chest, drifting downwards. Grantaire made the most grateful, and yet simultaneously desperate sound.

“Because I did wait for you,” he answered. “I did.”

“You sent me photos of your hand down the front of this thong.” Combeferre snapped the elastic against his hip — it didn’t hurt, but the sound made them both shift. “You had your hand all over yourself when I walked in the door even though I told you not to.”

Combeferre dragged his fingers across the line of hair between Grantaire’s navel and his erection.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire mumbled. “I  _am_  sorry. Please…”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me!  _Touch_  me,” he begged, fighting the need to rock his hips against Combeferre’s hand. “Please, _anything_.”

For a moment, Combeferre did nothing. Grantaire’s eyes slowly slid shut. The smallest whimper slipped past his lips.

Combeferre wrapped his fingers around Grantaire’s cock.

Grantaire would have leaned into him if Combeferre didn’t have his left hand under Grantaire’s chin, very deliberately keeping him upright. He whispered his gratitude anyway, and Combeferre — keeping a careful eye on Grantaire’s expressions, and the rise and fall of his chest — stroked him deftly. He tightened his fingers deliberately around Grantaire, smiling at the happy whines that his sweet, if wicked boyfriend made every time he flicked his wrist. He alternated between sudden, rapid jerking that made Grantaire mewl, and slow, light caresses that left him panting in between hip thrusts as his body pleaded for more.

“How much do you want this?” Combeferre asked softly. The muscles in Grantaire’s arms were straining against the belt keeping them behind his back.

“So much,” Grantaire answered immediately.

Combeferre scoffed, and Grantaire opened his eyes — his pupils were wide, almost obliterating the mesmerising blue Combeferre was used to. “You can do better than that,” Combeferre told him.

Grantaire whimpered. “Please.  _Please_ , Combeferre. I need you. I want this, and I need you.”

Combeferre lifted Grantaire’s chin a little higher. “Doctor,” he corrected sharply. He slowed down the movement of his right hand.

“ _Doctor_ ,” Grantaire immediately repeated. “ _Please_ —”

But Combeferre had already pulled his hand back completely.

“No— no no no,  _please_. Don’t stop. Fuck!  _Please_ , don’t—” His protests dissolved into pleading whines as Combeferre stood up again.

“If you need a doctor,” Combeferre said — interrupting Grantaire’s beautiful, miserable whimpering, “I’ll be waiting in my office.”

He walked away.

Grantaire — breathing hard and visibly shocked — stared at Combeferre’s back (or a part of Combeferre’s back) as he vanished into the bedroom.

He put his head down again, and hissed, “Fucking hell!” at the floorboards. “Fuck!”

Combeferre didn’t come back. He wasn’t going to.

Grantaire forced himself to his feet.

It wasn’t easy — he slipped more than once trying to find his footing in stilettos and fishnet stockings, but he slowly pushed himself up off the ground. He asked himself half a dozen times in that moment why he’d decided to date someone who knew all the tricks — who knew just how to make him  _pay_  for his sass.

The answer he gave was always, ‘Because.’ and nothing more than that.

He followed Combeferre, strutting into the bedroom.

“I hate you,” he immediately announced. He didn’t — not in the slightest.

Combeferre smiled at him. He’d stripped off his clothes and taken a seat on the edge of his bed while he waited. “No, you don’t.”

Grantaire was relieved. Combeferre was so calm most of the time, so stupidly fucking stoic that it was impossible for him to tell if Combeferre was enjoying himself as much as Grantaire was. As harsh as Combeferre was being, making him crawl and beg and whine — Grantaire was still hard, because he fucking loved it, but Combeferre never gave Grantaire the luxury of knowing he was also coming apart at the seams.

“Come here,” Combeferre called out. He wasn’t commanding — he was sympathetic.

Grantaire walked over and stopped directly in front of Combeferre. Combeferre almost grinned as he looked up into Grantaire’s desperate expression. He rested his hands on Grantaire’s hips.

“I want to fuck you,” Combeferre practically purred.

Grantaire took a deep, sharp breath to keep his knees from giving out. “Please,” he whined with a shaky exhale. “Fucking  _finally_ , please.”

Combeferre slowly slid one of his hands over the stockings covering Grantaire’s legs. He followed the movement with his eyes, and Grantaire watched, completely enthralled, because — for once — Combeferre’s self-control was slipping.

The medical student traced the threads of Grantaire’s fishnets with his fingers.

“Fuck me,” Grantaire begged.

Combeferre’s eyes flicked up.

He grabbed Grantaire and dragged him down into bed.

Grantaire would have given anything to just press every inch of his body against Combeferre in that moment. To kiss him until they were both breathless, and aching and emotionally wrecked — Grantaire was honestly already there — but Combeferre had other ideas, and Grantaire was still every bit as thrilled. Combeferre ruining him was everything he wanted.

Combeferre didn’t let Grantaire go. He grabbed the belt that he’d wrapped snugly around Grantaire’s wrists — ignoring the subsequent sharp gasp of pain — and used it.

Grantaire’s next breath was dragged through the sheets — through silky, soft sheets and the corner of a pillow as Combeferre pinned him face down in bed with his ass in the air. He held still  _only_  because he was just as fucking eager as the man rocking against him, and Combeferre knew it. He generously didn’t keep Grantaire waiting.

Slick fingers dragged that tight black lace to the side and pushed into him. Grantaire groaned.

He could feel the front of Combeferre’s thighs against the back of his own, separated by threads of fishnets that were barely there. He wanted them off — he’d have ripped them off if his hands hadn’t been curled into tight fists behind him. The leather dug into skin, but there was nothing he could do. The tension in his muscles seemed to drip down the length of his spine.

Combeferre loved everything about those stockings — about the black garters holding them up, and the lace tracing the curve of Grantaire’s hips. He loved those fucking shoes — the shine, the height, the things they did to his boyfriend’s calves. It was ideal. It was his fantasy, and he wasn’t letting go.

He slid a third finger into Grantaire, who did everything he could to push back onto his hand. Combeferre teased him, curling and twisting his fingers, and Grantaire let out another breathless whine.

Combeferre pressed an adoring, and surprisingly reassuring kiss to Grantaire’s shoulders.

When he dragged his hand away, Grantaire didn’t complain. He didn’t beg, or whimper, or even protest. He bit down on the pillow — he took a deep, shuddering, excited breath.  

Combeferre pushed into him. Grantaire  _moaned_.

It was a ragged, grateful sound — the rough, smoky purr of a desperate man on the edge of physical dissolution. Combeferre smiled, but there was a similarly happy noise waiting at the back of his throat.

He rocked his hips.

Grantaire buried his face in the sheets.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “ _Fuck_.”

And every word that followed got louder and louder because Combeferre didn’t roll his hips — he didn’t take his time, settling in against his boyfriend’s ass to coo over him and make him comfortable. There were bite marks on Grantaire’s chest for a reason. Combeferre did exactly what they both wanted him to do — he _fucked_  Grantaire with hard, deliberate thrusts, and Grantaire responded.

He panted and pushed back against Combeferre as hard as he could.

Combeferre dug the fingers of one hand into Grantaire’s side for leverage. The other slipped under him, wrapping around Grantaire’s cock again. Combeferre gripped him hard — his hand was still slick — and stroked him rhythmically. It took Grantaire  _minutes_  to come. The effect of hours of foreplay — of Combeferre teasing him and pushing him until his resilience buckled under the weight of his own lust — shuddered through his body, echoing out of his mouth. He was barely muffled by the bed beneath him — not that it mattered. Not that Combeferre cared in the slightest how loud Grantaire could be — he actually liked that. He loved  _reactions_.

He was absolutely thrilled by the blissful yelping that didn’t stop, even after Grantaire came — by the electric shivers that jolted across Grantaire’s shoulders with every single fucking thrust of his hips. Grantaire cried out. He said ‘fuck’ and ‘please’ and  _Combeferre_ ’, and Combeferre rewarded every noise with  _faster_  fucking. With  _harder_  movements. With fingers scraping over Grantaire’s skin, and carding through his unruly hair, and yanking on it completely disregarding how Grantaire was trapped between Combeferre’s hips and hands and his bed.

Grantaire got no warning that Combeferre was on the edge, because he didn’t need one. He needed what Combeferre was doing to him. He needed rough, adoring bliss.

Bliss was Combeferre’s fingers leaving bright red lines down Grantaire’s  _chest_  as he came.

Bliss was Combeferre pressing his lips — his rough, sharp stubble — between Grantaire’s shoulder blades as he panted when he was done.

Bliss was Combeferre’s weight holding him down, adding to the ache in his arms because he  _wanted_ Grantaire so much that he couldn’t resist  _wrecking_  him as thoroughly as he could.

Grantaire let out the happiest sound, and Combeferre mimicked him.

Combeferre pulled back slowly, straightening up. Grantaire was still panting, and shaking from head to toe, but Combeferre gently and determinedly undid the belt binding Grantaire’s wrists. He peeled it away, tossed it to the floor, and adoringly massaged both of Grantaire’s wrists before letting him move.  

When Combeferre finally let him, Grantaire toppled on to his side.

Combeferre unclipped the garter belt, and gently eased Grantaire on to his back. The rest was simple. Slowly and lovingly, Combeferre detached the garter straps from Grantaire’s stockings. He took off Grantaire’s heels, rubbing his feet as he did, and he pulled each stocking down, one at a time, leaving a trail of gentle, sweet kisses in their wake. Grantaire purred contentedly. Combeferre continued,  brushing his fingers over Grantaire’s hip bones. He soothingly licked  every single one of the red marks he’d left with his fingernails.

The little lace thong he loved so much was the last to come off — but Combeferre showered Grantaire with affection in exactly the same way all over again. Soft kisses, gentle touches — anything and everything he could possibly do to show his gratitude.

Grantaire was so wonderfully good, and Combeferre was so deeply in love.

Eventually Grantaire murmured, “Come here, please,” and Combeferre shifted, crawling over top of him.

Grantaire kissed him. Combeferre smiled, and returned the sentiment.

“Come take a bath with me,” Combeferre whispered.

Grantaire would have laughed if any muscles in his body had been willing to respond. “I can’t move,” he explained — though he clearly wasn’t in the least bit upset about it. He was the very definition of fucked out.

“I’ll carry you,” Combeferre told him, brushing his nose against Grantaire’s jaw.

“Right,” Grantaire said with a smirk — but he  _didn’t_  doubt that Combeferre would try. He pressed a longer, more romantic kiss to Combeferre’s mouth.

Combeferre settled down next to him. Grantaire threaded their fingers together. “We could finish your movie,” Combeferre suggested.

“I don’t even know what I was watching,” Grantaire replied.

Combeferre quirked an eyebrow.

Grantaire curled up against him. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was waiting for you to text me back.”

Combeferre wrapped his arms around Grantaire and held him tight.


End file.
